Proof of Life
by the.israel.project107
Summary: Collection of drabbles. Various pairings, various themes. Based on songs.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hurray for Author-Alert spam? Ok-ee, doke-ee. Alright. HI EVERYONE. Am taking a leaf out of **kurosora1984**'s book and posting up my song-meme drabbles from dA. This is partially my, 'Hey, look, I'm still alive!' contribution, and also the old 'lookee-me-do' distraction, since the oneshot I promised isn't ready yet. Once my brain gets back from the cleaners, I'm sure it'll be ready in no time :D If you're not aware of it yet, I burned out, put stuff of hiatus, etc, et al, ad nauseum, and details can be found on my profile. I also have just realised that I'm going to have to go through the forty-one pages already done of Tchoi and double fucking space between all paragraphs, since SOMEONE had a makeover since the last time I posted anything, and that SOMEONE desires double spacing ON TOP of double spacing, otherwise it's all crammed TOGETHER. Wow. I love improvements. FUCKING ACE, FFNET! /crazed thumbs-up, of the middle-eastern variety/

**Disclaimer: **Not I, Mister Wolf. There'd be far more people getting shot if I owned Kingdom Hearts :D And key-blade'd. With lasting consequences, none of this 'PG' bullshit.

**Warnings: **Sap, crap, sappy crap, and some months-old drabbles. Doesn't it sound _enjoyable _when I put it like that?

--

**Raining Again - Moby**

**--  
**

Demyx was angry, and Zexion didn't know what to do with himself. It had – just been an _argument_, for God's sake, just some session of yelling to let the slate-haired man expel everything he'd gathered, all the black energy caused by being around all those _fucking_ people at the lab all day – _he fucking hated Xemnas_ – but… at the end of it – no, _before_ the end, before he could properly wind down, Demyx had grabbed his coat and was gone. The sound of the front door slamming had been like a bullet, the handle crunching the wall.

But, he supposed in hindsight, Dem hadn't known that the frustration wasn't directed his way… the blond couldn't help being clumsy sometimes, couldn't help having burnt himself on the casserole dish and dropped it, there'd been – no reason for Zexion to just start bellowing like he had. _It's always the quiet ones,_ he told himself, wishing suddenly to have the luxury of time to grab the nearest frypan and beat himself until he was less fucking smart, until his brain-capacity matched his mouth-capacity, so he wouldn't have to go back to work and wouldn't have to come home and yell at the one person that made it all okay.

So, maybe Zexy had fucked up.

He was running within minutes, the dazed quality falling away to leave behind a raw spike of panic. He followed his beloved's steps, flying from the house and into the whipping sheets of rain. The sky was so dark, branches of lightening sparking in the distance, illuminating the world like an armada of paparazzi had come to take note of the man's hideous mistake. Dem had never left before. Demyx had never run away like that.

So, maybe Zexy had fucked up _bad._

He leapt into the car, already drenched, water slamming and smashing against the windscreen like artillery. Shivering sharply after only that short amount of time, feeling a deeper stab as he realised that Demyx was _out in this_, he got the motor going, got the heater blasting, pulled out quickly from the driveway. So many instincts warred, telling him to slow down, speed up, be careful, throw caution to the wind, and all were overridden by the fact that he could barely even see out of the windows. His breaths steamed the interior, mingling with the blinding quality of the rain, forcing him to crack open a window, let the stinging bullets in. The noise was deafening – the world was drowning. Zexion couldn't hear the engine, couldn't hear his teeth chatter or the blasting rush of the heater – it was all just the rain, the rain, the rain.

And then, he saw him. Trust Demyx, in the middle of the largest storm of the season, to be walking calmly down the pavement with his hands in his pockets, drenched to the bone and completely unbothered by the fact. The car cut across two lanes of nonexistent traffic, anyone with an ounce of sense already long-banished indoors. Two wheels mounted the curb, and in his sudden move, Zexion nearly knocked the blond down. Gasping, stopping sharply, he lunged across the gearstick, a knee pressing into the passenger's seat as he released the latch, shoved it open, the startled Demyx gaping in. "Zexion?!"

A hand thrust from the car, snatched a handful of his shirt and wrenched him in. Demyx vanished inside with a yelp, too stunned to fight, Zexion reaching past him, just about straddling him, as he grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut again. The roar on the roof increasing, the panting breaths of the two men lost within. Demeanour impassioned for once in his goddamn life, Zexion slammed the headrest with a fist, bellowing, _"Don't ever leave me again!"_

Anger flamed in the blond's expression, cheeks flushing, mouth opening to retort, hands already moving to shove the man off again, when Zexion suddenly collapsed against him. His hands, jumping from their fists just as swiftly as they'd formed them, wound around the other man with desperation, and a very surprised Demyx found himself being hugged within an inch of his life. He couldn't hear the words that Zexy said, but saw his lips move, saw him whisper, _"I'm so sorry."_

And with that, the rage within the blond was gone. He'd never been good at holding a grudge anyway, and it was doubly hard when it came to Zexion. He returned the embrace, sinking low in the passenger's seat, and the two of them stayed like that until it was safe to drive back home, back to clean up the splatter of casserole stretching from one end of the kitchen to the other.


	2. Chapter 2

**Israel's Son - Silverchair**

**--  
**

Blood ran in rivulets, in slowly meandering trails, threading back and forth like veins of chaos, deeply, darkly red against the pale skin it traversed. It was stopped at the ropes that bound the wrists, seeping into the rough fibres, staining them. Beneath this point, the hands were clean, but twitched weakly, unconsciously. They'd been bound so tight, Sora didn't know if he'd ever be able to use them again. His thumbs quirked. It – it might have been okay, or at least a little more endurable, if… if only they hadn't been wrapped so savagely around the back of the chair. His shoulders – they screamed for mercy. He himself could only sit there, feeling the way every limb was strapped down, knees spread apart, feet at odd angles to the floor. His chin rested against his chest, exhaustion and pain and blood making this whole… _consciousness_ thing… increasingly difficult.

That said, he didn't know if he was brave enough to just pass out like that. He'd be leaving himself to the mercy of the madman with the red hair.

Every now and then… he would try to reason with him. "Axel," he croaked. "Please. I don't – I don't even know who Roxas _is_. Why do you people… keep calling me…" He trailed off. That was it – that was the most he could manage. That was his burst of energy all used up. The defiance had been bled from his flesh. He honestly didn't know how much longer this would, or could, continue. At this rate, he was going to fade away, and never come back.

But Axel wasn't about to let that happen. "Don't go falling asleep now, key-whore," the man said pleasantly, slapping Sora's cheek lightly with the flat of the dagger that had done the honours to his carved-up arms. "We've had this discussion, haven't we? If you pass out, then _Roxas_ passes out. And I'd quite like to speak to him before that happens, if it's all the same to you."

Sora stiffened, head jerking slightly, voice low and cold as he asked, "And if it's not?"

Axel went still, blazing eyes narrowing. His face ducked quickly, trying to peer up into Sora's. "Who was that just now?" he asked intently. "Who said that? Roxas?" There was no response. The boy was still awake, but no one was answering. The redhead grew angry, fingers tightening around the knife. "God_damn_ it, Roxas, stop fucking around. You think I'm not serious about this or something? You think that at the end of this, if you haven't shown your _fucking_ face, I'm just going to let this prison for you walk away?!" Still nothing. A minute of silence stretched, in which the man's face grew rapidly darker. "Get out here." His voice was thin, impossibly hard. "I swear to God, Rox, I've had enough." He sat back suddenly, laughing sharply, an unstable sound, hands throwing wide. "I'm telling you, I'm reaching breaking point here." He flipped the knife around, leaned forward again and pressed its cutting tip to Sora's throat. "If you're not here soon, I'll kill him." There was a tremor to his hand, but he held the blade hard against its target.

The brunet hitched in a shivering breath, Axel watching with wide eyes, waiting expectantly.

"I _don't_ know _who_ that – " He screamed in agony as the redhead drove the dagger into his shoulder with a roar. He stood, paced savagely for a moment, then turned and smacked the boy hard, open-palm, a stinging blow across his entire face. "I've heard enough," he snarled. "Fine! If that's the way you want it to go – say g'bye, key-whore, you can thank the other side of your heart for this shitty little fate. If it wasn't for him, you could be off saving the universe as we speak, but _nooo_, Roxas has to be the same apathetic, difficult little bitch as always, huh?" He wrenched the knife out, Sora crying out brokenly as warmth flooded his shirt. The redhead walked away again, swivelled on the spot, came back with furious features and wound up with the knife, got ready to slam it deep.

En route, Roxas raised his head, crystal-blue eyes sharp, and spat, "Don't you fucking dare."

Axel froze, half a foot from Sora's exposed chest. He turned to rock, could have been a statue if not for the heaving of his chest. Green eyes met azure, scarlet brows drawn together. Almost uncertainly, the man murmured, "…Roxas?"

"No. It's the tooth-fairy," came the sarcastic response. Voice like a whip, he snapped, "Who the hell else would it be?" He leaned forward as far as he could, demanding in a hiss, _"What the hell do you think you're doing? How dare you hurt Sora like this!" _

Like someone flicked a switch, every ounce of Axel's anger turned to pain. "I can't let them do this to you. You already know I'd kill for you, Rox. So how is this any different?"

Roxas' voice rang out harshly: "It's different because this is how I want it! I want to be _whole_, Axel. Isn't that the whole fucking point of the Organisation? To find our hearts?" He glared at the lost-looking redhead. "Well, I've found mine. It's here, in this body. And if you do _anything_ to jeopardise that, I swear to God, Axel, I will come after you, and I will make you _suffer_."

Axel floundered for a moment, still knee-deep in grieving loss. "But… I don't want to let you go."

The blond/brunet shook his head, lowered his gaze. His voice low, he said, "But you already did. You didn't have a choice in the matter… I'm gone now. I'm not dead… I'm alive for once." His chin returned to his chest. "Please. Let Sora go. Let us _go,_ Axel."

Sora woke up a while later, feeling woozy, sick, heavy-headed. There was no pain at the moment, not anymore – he wondered if he was too far gone for it now. He realised, after several groggy minutes, that he was all alone, and when he looked around, he saw the knife with his blood on it, stabbed into the floorboards between his feet. That was when he realised that his ankles weren't tied to the chair anymore. He wasn't agile or clever enough to somehow work the dagger up out of the ground and flip it around to cut the bindings at his wrists… but he could heave himself to his feet at last, and stumble-shamble out of there, all the doors left open, out into the light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Where I Stood – Missy Higgins**

**--  
**

_"Cloud."_

The blond man hesitated in his actions, legs pressing against the side of their bed as he sorted through what he was going to take with him. The room was dimly lit by the corner lamp, shadows deep, the suitcase looking darkest of all… but this wasn't something he could turn from. His head dipped at the voice from the doorway, but he didn't stop for long. Slowly, his motions resumed, the sorting, the folding, the packing.

There was despair, low and heartfelt, when Leon spoke again: "Cloud, please. You don't… you don't have to do this."

Cloud shook his head, a quick, impatient movement, agitation, never far at bay, rising anew. "Leon, don't."

The man was at his elbow in a heartbeat, replying, with almost a childish petulance, "No, _you_ don't! Don't go! Don't _leave_ me, Cloud, please!" His fingers wrapped around the blond's arm, a desperate cling, a scared, lost look on his face when the blue eyes dared to glance over. The fear in Cloud's gaze almost matched his own, of separation, of being alone. All walls were down in this instant, all masks, all pretence at apathy that either of them exuded. They _cared_, damn it, they _felt_. But…

Cloud's expression, slowly, bit by bit, it closed down. It drew away, the pain and fear were smothered under a blanket of determination. His head lowered, arm tugging, trying to free itself of the brunet's grip.

"Leon. Don't," he muttered again. "I don't – just… please."

Angrily, Leon's grip tightened. "No! Not until you give me a good reason why you're _leaving_ me. I don't – I don't believe all that crap you said earlier, I can't! I _can't_ believe that you have to go because you _love_ me too much!"

The blond's head came up, eyes going straight ahead, expression suddenly raw, eyebrows knitted, a sharp intake of breath. "Leon. Leon, listen." His voice was shaking, he wouldn't look at the man, though those pale eyes studied him ceaselessly, trying to find the root of this hideous, awful problem that had to be solved before Cloud went away forever. "Leon – I – it's true. I have to go, and… find my own way." His hands clenched into fists as he muttered, "You saved me, Leon, you know that. After Sephiroth… and everything… you saved me. Made me – " He looked over, willing the other to understand. "You made me strong, and – and helped me to believe in myself."

Horror and disgust threaded through the brunet, his fingers jumping away from his lover. He shuffled back several steps, Cloud watching warily. "So, what? Now that you're all better again after what that man did to you…" A bitter laugh broke free. "You're done with me? I've served my purpose in your life?"

_"No!"_ It was almost shrill, almost a scream. Sudden terror showed in Cloud's face as he leapt across to his soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. He snatched for Leon's hands, pursued them when the man tried to jerk them out of reach, grabbed them fiercely and forced their eyes to meet. "No, Leon! _No._" He was breathless, frustration rising. "I'm not that fickle!"

"Then, what?" Leon's voice was strained. Both of them were near to tears, though neither seemed to notice, neither daring to acknowledge the fact. "Why?"

"You – it's because…" Hopelessly, Cloud revealed, "It's because you're everything to me. You're… my entire world, Leon." A hand worked loose of their mutual clenching of fingers, pushed through his wild thatch of hair in anxiety. "I can't imagine – a life without you. Not for a second. It's like… without Leon, there _is_ no life. I can't – imagine anyone else _touching_ you, I don't – " The frustration increased. "I don't know who I _am_ without you." He searched the brunet's gaze for understanding. "I don't have my own personality anymore, Leon, I'm just – I live for _you_. I _live_ for you, and if something ever happened to you, I'd die. I'd just… I'd flat-out die." Leon's grey gaze was tainted with uncertainty, his grip on Cloud's fingers loosening the slightest amount. "Maybe," the blond continued in a whisper, "maybe that sounds romantic to you, or would to someone else, but – " A slight, breathy, half-hysterical laugh. "I've been there and done that." Desperately, he asked, "What have I done but replace Sephiroth with _you?_"

Leon's eyes widened dramatically. Lips almost numb, he commanded, "Don't you dare compare me with that man."

"I'm not," the blond quickly assured, shaking his hand agitatedly. "I'm not, I swear – I'm talking about _me_, Leon, not you. I just – I should be more than this. I should be more than the person that I'm with. I should be… Cloud. Just Cloud." His eyes were pained, but filling with resolve. He glanced over at the bed, the packing that had been done, and… he knew that this was right. It wasn't good, it couldn't be if it hurt this badly, but – it was right. It was what had to happen. "You've got to understand," he said softly, after a long silence. "It's because I trust myself now. Because of you. And that's – why – I have to leave you." He looked at Leon again, saw that the man had broken, was crying quietly, because his heart was falling apart and there no way to patch this up. There was no problem to fix. Cloud was leaving the nest, Leon's wing of protection no longer required. The blond gave a watery smile. "I love you more than anyone that's ever entered my life, Leon. And... whoever comes after me... they'll love you more than I could."

Leon walked away at that point, disappeared into the house, into the garage. He climbed into the car like a wooden puppet, started the engine and drove away, just about blinded by his tears.

When he came back, three hours later, the love of his life was gone, and wouldn't be coming back.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Little Less Conversation – Elvis Presley vs. JXL**

**--  
**

He wouldn't… he wouldn't stop talking. Why wouldn't he stop talking?

This had happened for an hour and a half, once a week, for three weeks. Demyx was going mad. His head was angled down, staring wildly, sightlessly, at the papers spread across the low table, able only to focus on the slender hands that shifted from page to page, the background voice droning on, and on, and on… Zexion was a good tutor. Thorough. Insanely intelligent, and surprisingly patient. And utterly, utterly oblivious to the most blatant of hints.

Demyx was full of smiles, flirting, casual touches, and still the man continued to lecture. It didn't matter that the blond had worn his cutest outfit, that he was sitting purposely close, close enough for their knees to be permanently knocking – Zexion.

Kept.

Talking.

And then he had the nerve to look surprised when Demyx let out a strangled cry, flopping his upper body over the table with a gusting sigh of defeat. Worksheets went briefly spilling. The man blinked, a lull developing at last, adjusted the thin frames of his glasses, squinting his visible eye. "…Are you alright, Demyx?"

The blond stiffened, turned his head sharply towards him, smiling brightly. "Perfect! I just – uh – I need a glass of water!" He pushed away, jumped to his feet, socks silent over the carpet as he exited the sitting room into the kitchen. Checking to make sure he was firmly out of sight, he took a deep, calming breath, then formed tight fists and started jumping up and down, mouthing a string of silent curses, all culminated with a hefty punch to his own head. Feeling ever so slightly calmer, he called, voice cracking, "You want a drink, Zexy?"

"Don't call me that," came the response, followed by, "Water will be fine, thank you."

Tempted though he was to slip the man a glass of sparkling-clear vodka, maybe loosen things up a little, the drink he brought out _was_ the one the man had requested. As he set their glasses down, sitting back next to his tutor, Zexion said mildly, "You know, if you're thirsty, you can just ask for a break. You didn't need to be so dramatic." And with this out of the way, he promptly resumed talking.

Talk-talk-talk-talk. Demyx wished he had a sock puppet. He could put it on his hand, colour its hair purplish-blue, open up with a shrill, _"Hi, I'm Zexy!"_ and then just spend a couple hours repeating the word 'yap!' It'd sum things up nicely. Demyx was kind of tempted to grab his crotch out of the blue and see how much talking he got done _that_ way. Heh. Wouldn't Zexion be _startled?_

…This was, frighteningly, seeming like a better and better idea the more he thought about it.

Sense intervened at a lunging tackle, and instead Dem's hands went to the remote control at the edge of the table, grabbed it and nervously switched on the stereo, flipping through various stations in search of something that would aptly distract him. It took him about a minute to realise Zexion had stopped. He turned curiously to the man, took note of the dry expression, the raised eyebrow. "If I'm boring you, we can always leave it for another time."

The blond brightened. Who knew all he had to do was completely and utterly ignore the man to make him start taking notice? "Sure, okay!" He clapped his hands together, elbows on the table, leaning forward expectantly, a flutter of excitement in his chest. "What should we do instead?" His aim had been sultry suggestive – apparently, he'd missed the mark, considering that Zexion was now packing up in his usual efficient manner.

"Next time, try to find a way that will help you focus more," he was saying, tone clipped. "You've been growing increasingly distracted during these sessions, Demyx, and I don't think there's much more point in me coming here if you and I can't even – "

A good way of stopping someone from talking too damn much is to gag them. Dem was finding lips and tongue to be effective in this particular scenario, and, lo and behold, Zexion really, really did stop. He was silent. For more than a minute, he didn't utter a word, and it wasn't because he was annoyed, or because Demyx wasn't in the room – it was because he couldn't breathe.

Turns out, another good way to stop someone from talking is to smother them unconscious – unknowingly, Demyx's tongue and lips were doing the job nicely. Strange, then, that Zexion didn't struggle or try to shove him off. Instead, in the end, he simply went limp, slid from the blond's grasp, and cracked his head against the table on the way down to the ground. Demyx was left with swollen lips, empty arms, wide eyes gazing down. Wiping his mouth, he leaned over. "…Zexy?"

The paramedics really were kind, and a week after that, Demyx and Zexion became an official couple, after a couple of awkward conversations. Turned out Zexion, though ever-calm externally, was a nervous talker around people he liked – go figure.

Dem was pretty sure he was still gonna make the sock-puppet, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Horny as a Dandy – Mousse T. vs. The Dandy Warhols**

**--  
**

_"Fuck. Me."_

And Roxas _did_ mean that literally.

A shame then that there were no pyromaniac redheads conveniently in the proximity to hear him say it. He had woken up in their broad bed with sweaty sheets wrapped around his hips, sunlight pouring in through the window, and a hunger for everything but food.

Axel had gone in early to work. Roxas wanted to kill the bastard.

He hadn't felt like this since he'd been a budding adolescent waking up with a raging hard-on each morning, this absolute swell of hormones with no release but his goddamn right hand. And he was a _man_ now, damn it – simply jerking off when he was this fucking horny was _not_ going to suffice, not when he knew what he _could_ be getting.

He really did hate that asshole sometimes.

So – what to do? He smirked to himself, knowing that all he needed to do was whimper over the phone and Axel would be sprinting home as fast as his lanky legs could take him, doing his best to stem the nosebleed against his white sleeves. What the hell – the guy still had a few sick days up his sleeve.

The blond crawled out of bed, stretching like a cat after cream, sauntered to the kitchen, hips swaying, and found that the phone wasn't on its cradle. Okay. He could deal with this. Axel must have been walking and talking again. That was cool, this was fine, it just meant it was in an undisclosed location. No problem.

Twenty fruitless minutes of searching later, Roxas was snarling wordlessly, the apartment looking like a war-zone, cushions everywhere, dishes all over the kitchen floor, the counters strewn with cold food from the fridge, his stomping steps crashing through every room. He was definitely going to kill Axel for this. And his cell phone had been stolen just three days previously, which meant that, short of going and buying a _new fucking cell phone_, Roxas had no way of contacting the man by phone.

Growling and cursing under his breath, Roxas shifted to plan B, went to the computer, switched it on, connected to the internet. He quickly brought up his emails, composed a new one to Axel's work-address, not caring who the fuck read the message, "I WANT YOUR COCK, GET THE FUCK HOME" just as long as it got to him. He clicked send, and waited with writhing anticipation. There was no way Axel was ignoring this. Roxas was his Siren – he would brave tidal waves and train wrecks to get to the blond.

And the message didn't send. What the fuck, error message? He clicked send again, got it rejected, some kind of deeply offended rage curling up inside his chest. "Now you listen here, you son-of-a-bitch." He levelled a finger at the screen. "Stop fucking around." He tried a third time, finding it lacking in the luck he'd heard so much about. That was when he noticed that the net connection had severed. Oh, well fine. He tried to reconnect, only to find that it wouldn't go through. And that's when he remembered they hadn't paid the bill yet… they'd been overdue for two days, using it with tentative joy that the company hadn't cottoned on yet… except that now they had. When Roxas was horny. Life was growing increasingly bitchy and cruel.

Okay, so, screw it. He'd had enough of this. He went to the bedroom, threw on some clothes, grabbed his bag and threw the strap over his head, left the apartment with a slamming of the door. Stalking the entire way, sending out crawling clouds of black energy, the blond walked the eight and a half blocks to Axel's work, a stationery store, shoved open the door with a violent ringing of the little bell overhead, stomped to the counter and grated, voice like gravel, "Axel, please."

The girl blinked at him, smiled hesitantly. "Hiiiii, Roxas?"

"Axel. Now. Where is he?" He started glancing around, almost surprised that the redhead hadn't already tasted the pheromones and come lunging out to meet him.

"He's doing sales at the moment…" the brunette girl said, an edge of nervousness to her tone at the way the male was glaring and scowling darkly at the store.

"So?" Roxas demanded. "It's time for his break. Right now."

She shook her head, decidedly uneasy, explaining, "No, external sales – he's taken the company car and gone to sell supplies to – " She broke off into a yelp as Roxas' head crashed against the counter. He stayed there for a minute, rubbing his forehead back and forth along the glass surface, eyes passing sightlessly over the display of staplers and calculators. The girl reached out carefully, reluctantly patting the blond spikes, some kind of sympathy emerging in her heart. "Is everything okay? Is there an emergency?"

Roxas came up, hands rising beseechingly to the sky, groaning, _"Yessss,_ there's a terrible emergency, a calamity, a catastrophe of epic, epic, epic proportions." His head returned to the counter with a meaty thwack, hands lacing over the back of his head in misery.

The brunette hesitated. "Well – I mean, if it's that bad, I could tell you which region he's working in? The stores that he's visiting?"

Roxas froze. He sensed a line approaching, and he wasn't entirely sure how much of a stalker he'd suddenly be if he crossed it. Mouth muffled by the glass, he said, "Gimme the list."

He went here, he went there, he did the entire fucking thing on foot, and every time he reached one of the stores on the list, Axel had already been. Stupid company car making him faster than Roxas' feet. Stupid Axel for not having his cell phone on him during work hours.

Stupid Roxas for forgetting the house key, and having to sit, dejected, against the door after having, at long last, realised what a fucking tool he was being and given up. His legs ached, his feet were trying to attempt murder-suicide to put each other out of their misery. He kept them firmly separated, for their own good. He checked his watch for the tenth time in an hour, head thumping back against the door, moaning, "Axel, where are yooou?"

"Roxas?!"

He jerked, scrambled to his feet, watched wide-eyed as the redhead came galloping down the hallway, dishevelled and sweaty. He screeched to a halt, grabbed the blond, hands instantly moving all over him, eyebrows together with fear as he demanded, "What's wrong? Olette told me there was an emergency, you came looking for me! What is it? What's happened?"

He paused at the expression on the blond's face, a second before he was attacked, slamming into the opposite wall as Roxas' legs wrapped around his waist, lips pressed heatedly together, hips grinding, teeth coming out and sharply nipping and biting. Poor Axel didn't know what hit him, used all his strength to simply keep standing.

Roxas' voice belonged to another being, one from deep, dark pits, as he said, _"Get in the house._ No~ow, Axel."

The redhead gulped. "Are you – telling me – that I ran all the way home from work… that I thought you were dying or something… when in actual fact you're just… horny?"

"There's no 'just' about it." Roxas sank his teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder, and Axel swooned.  
"…Okay, then. I can – I can deal with that."

The disappeared indoors, and neither emerged for three days, except to pay the internet bill at Roxas' insistence.


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm Going to Stop Pretending That I Didn't Break Your Heart – the Eels**

**--  
**

Christmas really is a sucky time of year. Not just because there's little to no meaning in it anymore, not just because the prices of everything actually important get jacked up beyond belief, not because the malls get grossly crowded and driving becomes a bitch between the twin aggravations of snow and idiots… Nope. All that is already a given. Everyone knows how much Christmas sucks for those sorts of things.

No, you see, for Riku, Christmas sucked because, like every other lonely sap in the world, it was the time of year when all the memories came. He hated Christmas, because it was the one time of year when you were supposed to be _surrounded_ by loved ones or whatever, or even just have that special someone… and all he had was a haunting few visions in his skull, a couple of faded voices, and a whole truckload of regret.  
Every other day of the year, he could handle this. He wouldn't have had a problem with it. And it wasn't even that he felt dreadfully alone, as such, though it would have been nice to share it with someone. It was – he felt guilty. This was the quiet, reflective time of year when you looked at yourself, and made the judgement _for_ Santa – have I been a good boy, or do I deserve a stocking filled with coal?

Riku was gradually realising the answer to that. Because this wasn't just any old Christmas memory, any old regret – it was a revelation, and it hurt like a bitch. It stung, twisted, burned, was sour on his tongue. He cast his mind back without even trying, without wanting to, and for the first time in years saw the way that Sora had wept when he'd told him he was leaving him. He'd viewed the scene almost dispassionately at the time, with a hint of confusion. Sora was – he had made such a fuss. Had asked so many questions, never realising that Riku knew – he _knew_ that he was unlovable. Knew this whole thing was just a charade. Or at least, he _had_ known it. He'd been so sure of it at the time, so sure of his own worthlessness. Certain that Sora would be better off finding someone else, someone really worth all his magical time and smiles. The drama that the kid had thrown, well, it had just been – what, pity? Something like that? Riku hadn't actually _believed_ Sora could get so upset over something like this. At least, not for long. Soon enough, he'd figure out how much happier he was without the silver-haired male's presence in his life.

And six months later, when Riku had seen the boy looking thin and hollow-eyed at a party a friend had dragged him to, he'd thought – well, he'd just figured Sora was working too hard. And – the pain in his eyes, when he'd noticed Riku there?

The longing?

Riku just hadn't acknowledged them. He knew best, after all. Knew what a drag of existence he was. Knew… that Sora was better this way.  
Funny how, four years later, that expression could float up out of nowhere, really sock him one to the gut. Catharsises… weren't a lot of fun. Riku hadn't seen Sora again since that night, hadn't heard about him, had lost touch with all their mutual friends when he'd moved across the country a year after it had happened. He didn't know where the brunet was anymore, because four years was a long time. People got jobs, they met people, they shifted. Life moved on. And maybe, somewhere out there, the guy really was happy, was happier without Riku…

But that didn't change the fact that he really – he _had_ loved him. Had loved him with all his wonderful heart… and Riku had inadvertently broken it. Sora seen all the moods, endured the depressions, the rages, the fear, the self-loathing, and had managed to love him despite it all. He'd put up with… all that. Shouldn't that have been proof enough?

In the here and now, a more mature Riku sighed, hands deep in his coat pockets as he traversed the salted sidewalks, feeling a little stone in his insides come loose and give way to a gush of shame and pity. It hurt to have to feel it… but Sora deserved as much. Wherever he was, even if Riku couldn't physically say sorry… he could at least acknowledge that one person had had his soul a little bit shattered by his loss.

Christmas… was pretty fucking depressing that year.


	7. Chapter 7

**Passive – A Perfect Circle**

**--  
**

So, here they were. The shade, and its corpse. Roxas stood in the room of white, keyblades held tight, the feel of them so familiar by now, even more so in the presence of the brown-haired boy slumbering within the pod.

There was an eerie feeling to all this, accompanied by a coldness in his chest. Was this what it felt like to – have no heart? To be nobody at all?  
Was it fair that Roxas felt, and thought, and yet was considered nothing without that sleeping shell? Damn it, look at him. Roxas prowled around the pod. Without Roxas, he was nothing, he was trapped. The only way he was getting out of that thing was if the blond gave himself up, as he knew he inevitably would – whether he wanted it or not didn't really come into it, did it? DiZ was there to make it happen. Roxas didn't know, though, if he could resist even if he wanted to. Not with all the dreams that kept coming, every time he closed his eyes for long enough – dreams of _being_ Sora. But – that didn't exactly make it okay, did it? He didn't – didn't care if he was never supposed to have existed. He was existing _now_ - wasn't that what mattered?

If only he had some way of knowing, really knowing for sure that this was how it was all meant to be. That might have made it at least – a little easier to bear. How did Roxas know that he wasn't just going to cease to be? Wasn't this his death? He wanted…

He wanted Sora to open his eyes. He wanted the boy to confirm that this was the end, that they were meant to be one. Roxas knew, if he could just –

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he stepped up close to the pod, the smoky covering, peering in at the boy. Sora was angel-peaceful, deeply sleeping, not a twitch, not a single flicker of recognition that someone vitally important to his being was standing there, watching him. Roxas' voice sounded odd in the echoing space, out of place as he said, "Sora. Sora, wake up." He dissolved one keyblade, pressed his free palm to the case of the pod. "I'm right here." Anxiety flickered in his soul. "Just – give me a sign. Or something. Open your eyes, so I can see for myself."  
There was no response. Roxas may as well have not existed. His hand formed a fist, pounding the pod with sudden anger, panic at the fact that it was all true. "Damn it – don't I deserve that much?!"

"You deserve nothing," the deep voice of DiZ intoned from behind him. "You _are_ nothing, therefore, there is nothing that is owed to you."  
The blond hissed out a breath through his teeth, eyes narrowing. "I wasn't asking you – I was asking Sora." He half-turned, glared. "Besides, I'm half him, aren't I? Doesn't that mean I at least get half a chance?"

"You are," DiZ calmly countered, "a mistake that needs to be rectified."

As if the man hadn't already been cruel enough. Roxas spun back to Sora, despair shimmering in his expression. "Please, Sora! Just open your eyes – just let me see for myself!"

"You _have_ no self."

The keyblade burst back into existence, a low tutting coming from the man behind him. Roxas already knew that attacking that asshole was futile, though – his target was a different one. He lunged at Sora, hammered at the pod, swinging wildly with the blades in an attempt to rouse the boy. Sparks flew as metal hit metal, the din cacophonous as they rang against the cover again and again, punctuated by Roxas demanding, "Look at me! _Wake up, damn it, Sora!"_ He _did_ have a self, and he was going to make that self _open his goddamn eyes!_

DiZ grabbed him, pulled him roughly back, jerking him hard enough to make the keyblades clatter out of his grasp and away. Roxas struggled futilely, all anger and elbows, but the man… he was immovable. What was it… what _was_ it about this guy that made him think he had all the answers?

"That's enough." He didn't even have to bother to yell; Roxas was already losing to his unshakability, weakening in his solid grip. His motions grew feeble, hopeless, until he was limp in the man's arms, gazing helplessly at the continually sleeping figure of what was essentially himself. And, yes – Roxas' summer was over.


	8. Chapter 8

**Gotta Knock a Little Harder – Yoko Kanno**

**--  
**

It was funny, Riku thought, that someone as universally loved as Sora could be so untouchable. He'd watched him these long months, from the corners of his eyes, and begun to notice the way that, despite all the people that liked him, despite his crowds of admirers… the guy didn't really… _have_ anyone. He literally didn't seem to like touching a lot, tended to keep a personal-space bubble clamped into place at all times, and, morbid though it sounded, Riku found it all kind of fascinating. He took to following the brunet's crowd on its outskirts, sometimes receiving curious glances, but it wasn't unusual for Sora's crowd to fluctuate, fill and empty of the people that wanted to get near him and then left eventually, with a small core of girls and guys at the centre that seemed to be the closest thing the guy had to real friends. It was… hard to explain, to an outsider, how someone so popular and magnetically attractive could still be so isolated, yet somehow, this was what Sora had managed.

A little spark was lit in Riku's curiosity. Like so many before him, he wanted to know more about the enigmatically, energetically charming brown-haired creature, but he wondered if any of them had done it for precisely the same reasons as he was. From what he'd observed, a lot of them wanted a slice of the glory – popularity by association, that sort of thing, or just the attention of the boy. And the guy knew how to talk, knew how to engage a person and be friendly and boppy, but at the end of the day, he always walked away from all the invitations, always spurned those that would follow him, and it seemed like the ones considering themselves his true friends were simply the ones that refused, even after the couple of years that this had been happening, to be deterred.

Riku made it his mission to be part of this group.

He started out by being stalkerish, following the boy when the other clingers had fallen away, attracting a couple of odd glances from him, but, to begin with, nothing more. Then he started trailing Sora to the campus library during his breaks, whenever their free time coincided, knowing that the brunet enjoyed the quiet building, possibly because of the lack of contact it afforded, with Nazi-like librarians prowling the stacks. He'd sit as close to him as he could, never minding the glares that started being sent his way, pretending to be utterly, pleasantly oblivious.  
Eventually, confrontations started taking place. At first, it came from the direction of the core-group – a redheaded girl and her brown-haired friend blocked his path one day on his way to the caf, demanding that he back off, Sora didn't like stalkers. Riku had neatly side-stepped them, responding that all he wanted was to be the guy's friend.

"Sora doesn't want you," the redhead had stated coldly. Riku had smirked, walking backwards, shrugging carelessly.  
"I don't want _him,"_ he'd responded. He wasn't bothered; they were hypocrites for getting on his back anyway, considering the way he was merely echoing their selfsame persistence from way back when.

Eventually, it was Sora himself, bright, cheerful, happy Sora, that grabbed him by the neck and hauled him around a corner one day to demand, "What the hell are you doing? What do you want?"

Riku had straightened himself out, eyeing the boy coolly. "Who says I want anything?"

The boy threw his hands up in exasperation. "You've been following me for three months now. It's getting kind of creepy, I can tell you!"  
A silver brow had quirked upward. "You've been noticing me for three months? I only started stalking you proper the last month and a half."  
Cheeks faintly coloured but unshaken, Sora triumphantly snapped, "So, you admit you've been stalking me?"

Riku had shrugged his bag on more comfortably, starting to walk away. "Well, sure," he tossed over his shoulder. "How else do you suggest I get closer to you?"

He'd left the boy looking gobsmacked, not entirely certain why his words had so obviously affected him, but smugly pleased that he was at least beginning to chip through the massive door Sora had put between himself and the world. He just couldn't figure out why no one else had cottoned on to it – it seemed blatantly obvious to the silver-haired male that something in Sora's happy little personality was deeply flawed.  
Another month down the line, things reached a culmination. He was becoming accepted in the core group. They had got used to seeing him around, and for some reason, Sora had fallen silent on the subject of being disturbed by his presence. Riku got to know them all, even started to consider them as friends – all but the elusive heart of it all. Sora could see the walls of his followers falling one by one, and knew that they weren't going to protect him any longer. Riku focused his attack, started dogging the brunet's steps, agitating Sora beyond normal levels, until, one day, he snapped. It was quiet snap, but heartfelt.

"I've had enough." His voice was soft, but his words burned. Riku had to lean close to hear them as they walked between classes.

"Enough what? Enough Calc?"

"Enough you," the boy answered in a mutter. "You need to – leave me alone now. You've made your point. Or whatever." He raised his head, gaze heated. "You're in, congratulations, you made the Everybody-Loves-Sora club. So can you _now_ leave me alone?"

Riku snorted with laughter. "'Everybody Loves Sora'? Please tell me those idiots haven't actually made a club for you – oh, please." The brunet blinked, grew angry.

"Don't call them idiots, they're my – "

"Friends? Could've fooled me, sweetheart."

Sora flushed pink, glared, stopped walking and demanded, "If you don't want to follow me around like the rest of the puppies, and – and you don't _want_ anything from me – then what the hell are you even doing here? Why all the determination to drive me insane?"

Mildly, the silver-haired male asked, "You think of them as 'puppies'?" He shrugged. "I'm not a puppy, I guess. I'm not interested in kissing your ass or showing you off. I just wanted to really know if it was possible to crack that tight fucking mask you've got going." He shrugged again, started walking. "That's all."

Sora's bag collided with his head, swung hard, filled with books that made Riku yell out and stagger down to one knee. He turned, feeling his skull for damage, spat, "What the _fuck?"_

_"That's_ why?!" Sora's face was twisted with fury. He swung again, smacked Riku across the face, flattening him to the grass. "You've spent four fucking months following me around, just to see why I - ?!"

Riku, face throbbing and gasping, squinted up. "Why you what? What's the deal, Sora? You might as well tell me, now you've got me on my _back_ and all."

_"Why the hell do you care?"_

"Who ever said that I do?!"

Sora stopped at this, scowling down at him. "So you don't? You don't care at all, then?"

Riku groaned, covering his face with one arm. "Sora, how the hell do you expect me to care about anything that you do, when all you do is repeatedly shut me down?" He threw his arm away from his face, tucked both behind his sore head, eyes flashing. "All you're doing," he said, words piercingly accurate, "is testing people. You're waiting until they're knocking hard enough against your walls to break through. If they don't keep hammering, they don't care enough – right?" Sora's expression had turned to one of shock. "You can't test all of humanity for the rest of your goddamn _life_," Riku continued, mercilessly. "You'll lose a hell of a lot more than you'll ever gain." His eyes were grim. "I'm not a fan of tests. I wanted to figure you out, and now I have. So it's up to you now, as to whether we're done or not. Are we done? Because I'm not going to keep trying to break through – not unless you come out to meet me halfway." He smiled suddenly. "See, that's the difference between me and the puppies. It's not that I don't care – it's just that I'm not going to pander to your idiocies."

Sora momentarily bristled. "Idio - ?"

"Or, emotional scars," the male rephrased calmly. "But if they're there, they can only be fixed if you want them to be, right? You can't just lock 'em away, Sora." The two of them stared at one another for a while, before Sora shook his head. The humour suddenly left Riku's face, a cold, sad wind wiping it clean.

"You're wrong about me," the brunet said, all anger suddenly gone. "I didn't want people – to knock them down. The walls. And… they're not even walls, it's – a door. I just… wanted someone to knock hard enough to make me want to answer."

Riku frowned slightly, studying the boy. After a long moment, he said, "Well, fuck that." Sora's head came up sharply, some powerful pain in his eyes. "I'm not the type to throw myself against a door, Sora, and hope the person on the other side is going to feel like coming out." Before the brunet could unlock, could gather himself and flee from this abandonment from the one person that finally seemed to get it… Riku lifted a hand. He extended a finger, and pressed at something invisible in the air. "Ding-dong," he sang. He smiled crookedly. "Works much better. Goes through the whole house. You're never left in any doubt that there's someone wanting to get in and steal your cookies."

Faintly, Sora echoed, "…My – my cookies…?"

"Hey, Sora, I've got a joke for you: knock, knock?"

Sora sank down to the grass, gathering his bag onto his lap. The corners of his mouth twitching up, he sucked in a breath and softly answered, "…Who's there?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Bus Stop Boxer – the Eels**

**--  
**

Gravel crunched noisily under Axel's feet, the teen's long legs taking him along the thin trail that led inevitably to the bus stop. He was wrapped up thickly, coat heavy, scarf thick, wound around and around his throat, obscuring the bottom of his face, puffed-steam breaths spilling like smoke over the top of the warm material. He hitched his school bag tighter over one shoulder, glanced briefly down at his watch – the bus wasn't due for an hour.

Great.

The crowd had already built by the time he reached the top of the hill, all of them in their uniforms, rugged up against the biting chill. Snow coated the ground thinly, slushy in places, grey, clinging to the bare arms of the bony trees thickly populating the area. For a minute, Axel stood at the peak, unseen as yet, a foot slowly kicking against the metal of the railroad track that trailed along the countryside, the sky growing dark behind him. His bright gaze inspected the gathering with a critical eye, already picking out which ones were going to be today's fighters. It was easy enough to spot them – some of them had already stripped off their coats, were jumping up and down to keep warm, going through some stretching exercises to make sure nothing got wrenched or pulled, that they wouldn't be limping home because of a stupid mistake on their own part. Others were the centres of their own small groups of admirers… but most of them were there for Axel.

Luxord, looking for him, spotted the redhead from the distance. Raising his voice, he hailed him, _"Axel!"_ He waved eagerly, fingers tightening around the leather pouch he was storing the punters' bets in. "Get your arse down here, you lanky bloody freak, we've got a fight to start!"

Tilting his head back, Axel took a deep breath, drew the sharp air into pained lungs, released it out in a long exhalation, curling into the air and away. "Coming, dear," he called, watching the white ribbons dissipate, voice raw from the cold. Giving the tracks one last kick, he stepped over onto the wooden slats, jumped over to the other side, made his way down the steep hill. His potential opponents were eyeing him off, some warily, others judgmentally. Those that were there only to watch, only ever to watch, nudged each other in anticipation as the redhead came strolling confidently down into their midst. He nodded to them at large. "Morning, gentlemen. Nice day for it."

Luxord met him excitedly, tugged him off to one side, hissing, "We've got nearly a hundred bloody quid, mate!" He punched Axel's arm happily. "Word of you's spread!" Axel rolled his eyes, slinging his bag down and out of reach of any of the creeping snow, Luxord snatching it up a moment later and tugging it onto his own back, looking curiously hunchbacked with it bobbing on top of his own schoolbag. He reached out as the redhead started discarding his long coat, pulled it away and threw it over his shoulder, took his blazer next, the final product being Axel rapidly cooling in his charcoal pants, white shirt and black tie, folding his sleeves back over his elbows, already mimicking the others in bouncing from toe to toe in an effort to maintain the loose heat he'd developed during the walk. Luxord gave him another cheerful punch, for luck, and turned to the assembly.

"Right, gents! All bets are placed, the books are now shut – from hereon, if you change your mind, tough bloody tits, alright? First challenger, please, Axel's ready to go!"

One cocky-looking new bastard – it was always the newbies that held that swagger of 'I couldn't lose even if you cut off my right hand and stuck a clamp around my crotch' – in a foreign-coloured uniform stepped up, unbuttoned his blazer slowly, deliberately, looking the red-haired teen up and down with disdain. "So, you're the famous one, then?" He sounded unimpressed. "The Yankee I've been hearing so much about?"  
Axel shrugged impatiently, still hopping from foot to foot, wild spikes dancing behind him. "That depends how many Americans you and your boyfriends discuss during recess, sweetheart. I just come to fight."

Mimicking the redhead, he pushed his sleeves back carefully. "I heard you're a faggot."

"Yuh-huh," Axel drawled without batting an eyelid. "Watch out, I might rape you while you're down." He paused his motions for a moment, gave the boy a careful, analysing once-over, a small smirk appearing. "Then again, you're, uh, not exactly my type, sweetheart. I prefer my men with a little more behind their zippers, you know?"

The crowd sniggered and jeered. The boy flared, fists clenching, eyes widening, an ugly sneer in place. "Let's see who has the bigger balls once you're bleeding on the ground."

Luxord cut in sharply, "The first man to make his opponent bleed loses, instant disqualification. We wouldn't want our mummies wondering why we're coming home all beat up, now, would we? This isn't Fight Club, and neither of you is Brad Pitt, I can assure you. Remember, gentlemen, keep it above the belt, and block your fucking faces, alright?"

"Besides," Axel added, with a toothy smile, "it's not the size of the balls that matters."

A circle scrambled quickly to form, Luxord taking the centre, lifting a small, silver whistle to his lips. The fighters took up their positions, fists ready, and with a shrill tweet, he leapt back, the battle began.

Shoes danced through rotting leaves, Axel's grace lazy and loose, the opponent's movements quick and precise, controlled. The redhead never threw the first punch; never. Not once had he been the one to start the violence – but he was always the one to finish it.

A punch that blew past his face, classic television-style swing, the type Axel could dodge in his sleep, and then three fierce jabs to the gut before his opponent could even blink. Choking ensued, gagging, a breath and then a hard counter-attempt that spoke of athleticism but absolutely no idea of how to fight outside the schoolyard. Axel felt kind, since the guy was so obviously green – rather than simply ducking again, he brought his arms up, stopped the fist a foot from his nose, darted in and around, and slammed his knuckles into the delicacy of flesh between the ear and jaw, sending him jolting to the side. Cheers exploded, along with groans from the anti-Axel's, Luxord keeping uncharacteristically quiet as he did during the fights, never counting his money until it was safe in his wallet.

At this point, another person would perhaps have started taunting the doomed-to-lose opponent, would have sneered, crowed, laughed out loud or just deliberately provoked an enraged attack – Axel, however, was silent, waiting for the boy to recover enough to get the battle back on track. He wasn't doing this for the ego-inflating glory, and as nice as the cash was, he wasn't doing it for that, either.

The boy approached again, cautiously this time, watching the redhead intently, looking for an opening. Exhalations steamed the air, snorted out between teeth. The redhead changed his position, subtly inviting the kid's subconscious to spot a non-existent gap to pounce on, and pounce he did.

It was moments like these that had made Axel as famous as he was in the bus-stop crowd – one moment, it looks like the fight has just begun, that maybe this time, _this_ time, he'll cut someone a break, whether it's because they're good, or because he pities their ridiculous attempts, or just because he's tired of always fucking winning – and then the next, he's smashed his fist into the cheek of one over-confident kid with a chip on his shoulder, and the kid's down, man, he's flat on his back and he is _not_ getting up.

He's not bleeding; he's not unconscious – but for once in his life, he knows what real pain is. The kind that makes you want to burst out crying, run to momma and be hugged and comforted, point a finger and accuse the inflictor of being _mean,_ of it being _unfair,_ he's too _rough,_ damn it. But hell – they signed up for it, right? Was it Axel's fault they hadn't caught a decent punch in all their days?

The difference between Axel and this kid was that Axel… Axel would've got up. He would've kept getting up, over and over. He had – back when he'd first stumbled upon this, back when Luxord was just a spindly kid with a little bit of gambling knowledge, every time they'd knocked him down, he would climb the fuck back up. Didn't mean he always won, not at first – but sooner or later, he ended up getting up just one more time than his opponents could handle. And from there, things had spun out to this – crowds each Wednesday and Friday, money changing hands hot and fast, the gleam in Lux's eyes growing brighter and brighter, and Axel. Axel, fighting, and getting up, and fighting some more.

He didn't do it because he loved it. He didn't do it for the machismo. He did it because he was in a foreign country, because no one here had known him, once upon a time; he did it because he had to prove to them all that he _could._

So, they could arrive in their droves, they could strut and primp and swing, and fall, and the difference between him and this kid, the one lying in a daze on the damp ground, Luxord steadily counting him out of the fight with hard glee, was that the kid had nothing to prove. He was too sure of himself to be able to fight against someone as desperate for recognition as Axel. Quietly desperate, but desperate all the same.  
And yet, frustratingly, once they all knew his name, it'd suddenly mean nothing.

Maybe, he thought idly to himself, as the cheers erupted once again and the boy was carefully helped up and away, as the hands rained down on his shoulders and the smiles were bright… maybe he'd have to find a new stop someday soon-ish. No good trying to prove yourself to people that believe in you, after all.

There was a whole world to conquer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Los Angeles – Sugarcult**

**--  
**

Riku woke up when it was still dark; he could feel the sun approaching. The heat was already building within the tiny apartment he shared with his girlfriend, trapped between close walls and windows without screens, so that you had to choose between the stifling airlessness or the swarms of bugs and blood-suckers the travelled the air at night. Since Naminé had such delicate skin, it was always the former that won out – the pair of them lay naked under a single thin sheet, night after night, tossing and turning as the temperature stayed steady and hot during the midnight hours, before growing to choking levels with the morning.

Lying on his stomach, bare legs spread out so the skin of his thighs wouldn't stick together, the silver-haired twenty-year-old lifted his face from its crushed position inside the pillow, blinking blearily at the glowing numbers of the alarm clock. Four-thirty a.m. Not long at all, and the golden peak would be rising, ready to burn L.A all over again, on this glorious fucking fourth of July.

Beside him, Naminé shifted, her golden hair sweaty at the roots, and all he could do was wrinkle his nose in distaste at the sight. God knew he wouldn't be looking any better, especially since she hadn't let him in the _fucking shower_ last night because of their fight, and with the price of everything on the rise, their plans to save on the water bill meant only _one fucking shower_ per night between them.

Riku was torn between getting up, getting some distance between he and her, pouring some water into the cup of his hand and scraping it through his hair and over his face, and the fatigued temptation of just drifting back into the thick fog of heat and falling back asleep until the alarm went off in another hour. It took him fifteen minutes of listless deliberation to decide to rise, the mattress sinking and then springing back as his weight rolled and vacated, feet touching the thin, worn carpet. He reached out, took hold of the edge of the curtain, twitched it to one side and gazed out for a moment at the dark city. Yep, there it was – he could see the grey line across the horizon.

Fuckin' sun was coming.

He sighed sharply, let the curtain go and shuffled across the bedroom to where his clothes lay in a messy pile on the floor, bending slowly like an old man, gathering them up into his arms. In the bathroom, he washed himself sparingly, desperately trying to get some feeling of freshness going, but the instant the droplets touched his skin, they flattened and evaporated – he was left feeling as dry as he'd been before he'd started.

Pulling on his uniform, flipping down the collar and yanking the long hair out of the back of his to settle at his shoulders, Riku tried to muster up some energy for the day ahead, tried to pep-talk himself into some enthusiasm that might've been left lying around somewhere. It didn't come. There was nothing. His mind and heart were as parched as his skin and tongue. God damn it, but he was dying out here.

For a long minute, he folded his arms over the sink, bent over and touched his forehead to the deceptively cool porcelain, wondering when the hell this would all be over. He was trapped here, he could _feel_ it, as trapped in this apartment and couple and life as his legs were trapped in the long black pants that his boss insisted on them all wearing, come Hell or high water – and God only knew the Hell part was being fulfilled with every day he drew breath in this pit-like fucking place. Teal eyes slid shut, despair welling thickly in his chest, heavy.

When the alarm finally went off, Riku was in the tiny, cramped kitchen, sitting on the counter next to the window, which he'd cracked open an inch to get some air in, as stagnant and breath-warm as it was – you just never knew when a fresh breeze was coming, though, it was like the Earth's lottery, and you had to be in it to win it. He was crunching down a small bowl of muesli as the shrill beeping erupted in the bedroom, and he waited, waited for Naminé to roll over and turn it off.

He waited.

He waited for ages. He pulled the spoon from between his lips, saw himself in the spit-shining metal surface, and yelled, "Naminé, are you dead or just deaf?"

Her voice travelled back thinly, "I'm not fucking turning it off – it's _your_ alarm, _you_ set it, _you_ woke me up – if you were already up, you should've unplugged the stupid thing."

Riku smacked himself between the eyes with the spoon. Teeth pressing together, he raised his eyes to the ceiling, hissed, _"God, give me strength,"_ and pushed off to land on the linoleum. He stalked into the bedroom, snatched up the clock and flicked off the alarm, resetting it for the next morning. He almost threw it back onto the nightstand, but restrained himself – just.

"I thought you were gonna break it," Naminé muttered sleepily. "I was hoping you would."

"Yeah, well, unlike you, I need it to wake up in time for work," Riku snapped back, straightening, glaring over at her.

"Oh, fuck you," she replied irritably. Her hand worked its way out of the sheet, one perfect middle-fingernail flicking up into the air. "It's not my fault you have to work on a holiday, so don't take it out on me. Just make sure you pick up some milk on your way home tonight, I invited Kairi over to watch the fireworks from our window, and I want to make pancakes in the morning."

"You know something, Nami, sweetheart? You really don't make life easy." Riku kicked the bed, moodily stomped back out, went to fridge, wrenched it open. He grabbed the milk, swilled around what little there was left of it, popped the top open and gulped it down.

Naminé appeared at the door, dragging the sheet, and made a face. "Gross, Riku. Use a glass. You're not an animal, so don't act like one."  
"Baby, I've never seen an animal drink from the bottle, okay?" Riku flashed her a sweet smile. "So keep the fuck off my back." Rolling her blue eyes broadly, the girl trailed the sheet into the bathroom, shut the door on its corner. The sound of the faucet going on hard made the silver-haired male throw up his hands in exasperation. "Just use as much as you like, Nam, it's no problem," he yelled through the door.

Deciding he couldn't take any more of this for one morning, he grabbed his keys from the counter, jammed his wallet into his pocket, and left early without a word. Who cared if he got to work before anyone else? Maybe, for once, Ansem wouldn't chew him out for being useless. What a nice change of pace.

As he exited into the sun, he paused, threw up an arm to shield his face from its savage burn. Trudging to the edge of the road, he unlocked the car, its white surface dull, undulating waves radiating from its metal roof. He dreaded climbing into it – it was going to be painful. His hand was seared a total of three times on the blistering handle before he managed to wrench it open, letting out a swirl of trapped, sizzling air. He lowered himself in, choking a couple of times, sucking in the heat, cranking down the window. He got the engine going, keys swaying and bumping his knee as he pulled away from the curb, already sweating rivers, eyelids blinking away the salt.

Half an hour later found Riku stranded in the middle of traffic, the radio blaring out a traffic report through all four open windows as he hauled himself out onto the street in amidst a blare of horns, jamming his hands against the hot metal of the roof and doorframe, bending low and pushing hard, getting the car rolling, dead from overheating. The needle on the gauge was taunting him, half an inch past the hottest measurement. As he thrust an arm in, hand gripping the wheel and guiding the hunk of metal off the highway, onto the narrow tow-away lane, he shot the gauge a dirty look through slitted eyes, hissing curses under his breath.

He leaned in, wrenched the handbrake up, and slumped against the steering wheel for a long minute. Behind him, the cars and buses continued buzzing past, a constant draught of baked air rushing through his hair. As tempted as he was to stay there until he melted away into the seat-cover, though, if he didn't fix this fast, he'd be late, and he sure as shit couldn't afford a tow.

Sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, Riku straightened, pushed himself back out into the full brunt of the light, yanking the lever to open the hood. Going around, hands on hips, he squinted at it through one eye, already knowing how impossibly scorching the steel would be to touch. Shoulders lifting in a resigned shrug, he wrapped his hands into the bottom of his polo-shirt, the perforated fabric little protection as he grabbed the hood's edge and just about threw it up. Frantically, he wrenched up the stand as it came crashing down, jumping out of the way as it let out a deafening bang, hands snatched close to his body. The hood shivered, shuddered, bounced a little, and fell still. Cautiously, Riku approached, peering into the engine's depths. The radiator cap was jammed on tight, burning him through his shirt when he tried to undo it. He reared back, kicked the stupid car, and a voice from behind asked, "Does that make you feel better?"

Riku whirled, breathing hard, frustration tight. Throwing a hand through his hair, he snapped, "Yeah, actually, it makes me feel like a fuckin' daisy. Car therapy, never heard of it?" He turned back, gave it another savage boot. "It's good for the soul," he snarled. The newcomer laughed softly, Riku twisting again to look at him, shielding his eyes. The guy was of average height, had a nice face, brown spiky hair, a massive bag on his back, various straps holding its weight comfortably against his body, no vehicle of his own in sight. "If you're after a ride," Riku said wearily, "you've come to the wrong person. I'm not going anywhere for a while. Not until this bitch cools down enough for me to open the radiator." Another kick, a little half-hearted this time. The boy nodded.

"That's okay, I was just coming to see if everything was alright."

Glaring at him, one eye pressed shut against the sun, Riku demanded, "Are you gonna mug me?"

The brunet blinked enormous blue eyes, kinda like Naminé's in hue, but otherworldly in their expression. "No, man," he said, surprised. "I told you, I came to see if you were okay. I mean, I can help, if you want."

Riku looked him up and down critically. "How?"

The boy sighed, shrugged. "Well, nothing major, but if you don't have a cell-phone, I can hitch a ride down the highway for you and call a tow…?"

"I can't afford a tow-truck," Riku said bluntly, cutting him off. He blew out a short, sharp breath. "But thanks, I guess."

The boy came up to stand beside him, unbuckling his bag, swinging it around onto the asphalt at his feet, looking down at the motor. "I've got water if you need to refill the radiator." He smiled. "I don't mind waiting til it cools off."

Riku eyed him uncertainly, hot and fed up, but finally recognising that whoever this guy was, he at least wasn't going to compound his problems. "…Thanks. I appreciate it."

"No problem," the guy chirped. He held out his hand, adding in the same tone of voice, "I'm Sora."

Riku hesitated, grasped his sweaty hand. "…Riku." They leaned against the slowly cooling car, under the shade thrown by the hood, and he asked, "So, Sora, are you the kind of hitchhiker that wears a friendly mask and then murders people in their beds, or are you just genuinely nice?"

"My current lack of police record," the brunet replied thoughtfully, pulling a large bottle out of his bag and taking a gulp of water, "indicates that either I _am_ genuinely nice, or just really good at hiding the bodies."

Riku snorted. "What are you even doing in this shit-hole city, anyway?"

"Passing through," Sora said easily. "I've still got three-hundred miles to go before I reach my mom's house." He passed the bottle to Riku, who took it, swallowed a long mouthful, wiped it off and handed it back.

"No car?"

The boy shrugged. "Not at this point in my life. Back home, I usually bike around. It's a small enough place to be able to."

Riku let out a noise of distaste. "Not here, man. Here, it's your car or the bus, and public transport in this weather is ridiculous. I wouldn't step foot into one of those mobile men's locker rooms if you paid me."

Sora laughed, a musical, carefree sort of sound that struck a chord in Riku's chest. He hadn't heard anything that… _clear_… in a while. "I noticed. Me either! I'd rather stand for three hours on the highway." He noticed Riku staring, tilted his head to the side, the other male blinking and shaking his head, glancing away. "You okay, Riku? You seem… stressed."

Riku snuffed a short laugh, shifting his feet slightly. _"Life_ is stressful." He sighed dully, gazing out at the passing lanes of traffic. "Quite frankly, it basically sucks. Yay, life." It was Sora's turn to stare, Riku noticing, squirming slightly. "Forget about it," he mumbled.

Sora shook his head. "You know, it's easier to leave it all behind than you'd think," he said, studying him. "I did it, I moved to Destiny Island – you know that place, it's on, like, travel brochures and stuff? I just picked up and left. I still see my mom and all, and I come home like I'm doing now, but, honestly? It wasn't hard. Like, at all."

"Well, some people have jobs and girlfriends and leases that don't expire for another three months," Riku growled. "It's hard to just 'pick up and leave' when the world has hooks sunk into every fucking piece of your flesh."

"…Oh." Sora sounded disappointed. "Yeah, I guess so." For a while, there was silence between them, before the boy lifted his head once more, that smile back in place. "But you know, if you ever do get a chance, you should go for it. Come to Destiny Island and just forget about L.A. It's a good place for that sort of thing, new beginnings and all."

Riku gazed at him, an emptiness in his eyes. "I don't know. Maybe." He looked down, eyelids sinking halfway. "But probably not," he said softly. "Probably never."

They waited an hour, until the radiator cap was cool enough, and unscrewed it with their combined strength. Sora emptied an entire giant bottle into it, the glugging loud between them, and Riku gave him a lift as far as the next gas station. He left him there, a dwindling speck in his rear-view mirror, and got to work late enough to give Ansem a field-day of Riku-screaming.

Whether Riku and Sora ever met again… well, that depended on Riku.


End file.
